


Hands All Over

by blainedarling



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Bottom Harry, Explicit Sexual Content, Famous Harry, Hotels, M/M, Non-Famous Zayn, POV Zayn, Spa Treatments, Top Zayn, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 01:25:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4984480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blainedarling/pseuds/blainedarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Point is,” Louis leans over the back of the sofa. “Point is, that Harry Styles has got a very good bum. And I feel very confident in saying that having seen it up close and in person now, too.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>The room goes very still, and quiet. Even Niall stops eating. </i></p><p> </p><p><i>“What was that?” Zayn asks, as calmly as he can manage. This is </i>Harry Styles<i> they’re talking about. It’s not like he’s got a crush or anything, but— He might have gotten off to that photo of him on holiday in the tiniest of tiny yellow shorts more times than he would care to admit.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>“Harry Styles,” Louis replies coolly, his eyes twinkling. “Was signing off on his pre-exercise questionnaire upstairs when I was on my way down.”</i></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>—or, the one where Zayn tries and fails to massage his celebrity crush without getting massively turned on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands All Over

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for this prompt, whoever you were: _zayn works in a hotel spa. harry is on vacation and is looking to get pampered. (maybe featuring over-the-top harry with rose petals and silk robes and overpriced candles + weirdly-turned-on zayn)._ I'm so sorry it took so long, but I hope you enjoy what I've done with it!  <3 Title from the Maroon 5 song of the same name.

Zayn shoulders his way into the spa, his nose scrunching up at the pungent smell that hits his senses. It’s not the usual kind of smell that he’s greeted with when arriving at work; it’s not aromatherapy oils or sandalwood candles. It smells greasy, heavy.  

Fried chicken. It smells like fried chicken. The bucket of fried chicken, in fact, that Niall is elbow-deep in when Zayn rounds the corner to the reception area. “Mate, that reeks. It’s too early in the morning for that.” He glances at his phone. It’s barely nine. How Niall can even stomach fried chicken this early is beyond him. 

“Been up for hours,” Niall says by way of a response, shrugging as he tears into a chicken leg. “Liam let me into the gym early.” 

Liam gives a grunt of affirmation around a spoon of his porridge. Zayn likes Liam. Liam eats appropriate foods at appropriate times of the day. He looks like he’s been in a while, too. His hair is a little mussed, his hoodie already relegated to being tied around his waist instead of over his tank top. 

“Where’s Louis?” Zayn asks as he tosses his backpack to the ground and joins them on the comfy collection of sofas. He toes off his boots before kicking his legs up onto the sofa and digging his feet in underneath Niall’s thigh. He’s been told off more than once for treating the spa too much like his home—but, then, lately it feels like he seems more of it than he does of his flat. He’ll come straight to work from his classes, if he has them that day, and stay long past his shift to work on his essays. It’s warmer than his flat, it’s quieter than his flat, and it doesn’t smell like dirty boys or crusty dishes. Not usually, anyway.

“Running late. Said he’s bringing you a breakfast roll, though.”

Zayn smiles contentedly and nuzzles his cheek into the back of the sofa, thinking he might close his eyes for a minute or two before Louis gets there. Louis is the first friend he made at the spa, the two of them undergoing their training at the same time. Louis works full-time, unlike Zayn who swings the part-time hours on top of his undergrad work.  

On their first day, Magz, their enigmatic and eccentric boss had asked Zayn why he wanted the job. Zayn blinked—it was an interview question except it wasn’t an interview, because he’d already done that, he’d already gotten the job. So, he’d said the first thing that came to mind. “My ex says I’m good with my hands.”

That had been enough, apparently, for Louis to decide that Zayn was a worthwhile friend to have.

Niall had started six months later, taking over from the previous sports therapist. Through Niall, they’d met Liam, one of the personal trainers at the hotel gym on the third floor. 

Despite the gym staff having a common room upstairs, with a perfectly good microwave for Liam to make his morning bowl of porridge, it’s not unusual to find him down in the basement level where the spa is located on his breaks. Eating, hanging out with them if they can spare the time, or taking a kip on the heated loungers in the relaxation room. It isn’t that Liam doesn’t get on with the other trainers, per say, so much as it is do with the more persistent of his clients.

“Oh no, Liam,” Louis laments when he strolls through the door a few minutes later, beanie stuffed over his head and a paper bag in his hands that smells a whole lot better than Niall’s chicken. “Are the yummy mummies out in force already?”

Liam sighs and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Katy had a 7:30am.”

Of all Liam’s clients, Katy is the worst. Even more so than the yummy mummies, who preen and twirl their hair and squeeze Liam’s biceps and bat their eyelashes—the yummy mummies are _shameless_ in how they flirt with him. Katy isn’t like that, but Katy’s crush on Liam is painful even to the observer. 

“I’ve got someone coming in soon but I think she’s still up there. Said she might go for a swim, still.”

“Want me to come up with you?” Zayn offers. “Feel you up a bit?” He’s lost count of the amount of times he’s had to play pretend as Liam’s boyfriend in a very public and obvious manner to try and get them to disperse. But not with Katy—Liam’s been trying to let her down gently. Which, in Liam speak, means doing absolutely nothing. 

“Maybe. If you don’t mind?”

Zayn cracks a grin. “Honestly, Li. You always act like I don’t enjoy pinching your bum a bit. It’s a nice bum.”

“Not as nice as Harry Styles’ bum, though. Eh, Zed?”

Zayn narrows his eyes in Louis’ direction. “What’s Harry Styles’ bum got to do with this?”

“What’s it _not_ got to do with it? You used to have a photo of it taped up in your staff locker, didn’t you? Still might, actually.”  

Zayn feels his cheeks heat up as the boys crack up and he sinks down deeper in the sofa. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, mate.” 

Alright, so there _had_ been a photo at one stage. But that was only when there all those photos got splashed across the internet of Harry out with some Calvin Klein model with a six-pack and big arms. 

_Harry Styles all loved up! Harry Styles and his new beau! Harry Styles dates Hottest Man in the World (and, no, we don’t mean himself)!_

He’d stuck the photo up as motivation to try and work out a little. Which had been fine until he’d actually tried working out. A half hour later and he was on the phone to Doniya, thinking he better say goodbye since he was pretty sure he was in fact dying. She’d proceeded to point out that Zayn, English lit student and occasional spa therapist, could look like David Gandy and still not have a chance with Harry Styles, international pop star and all-round heartthrob, which, frankly, Zayn thought was a little mean and uncalled for. 

“Point is,” Louis leans over the back of the sofa. “Point is, that Harry Styles has got a very good bum. And I feel very confident in saying that having seen it up close and in person now, too.” 

The room goes very still, and quiet. Even Niall stops eating. 

“What was that?” Zayn asks, as calmly as he can manage. This is _Harry Styles_ they’re talking about. It’s not like he’s got a crush or anything, but— He might have gotten off to that photo of him on holiday in the tiniest of tiny yellow shorts more times than he would care to admit.

“Harry Styles,” Louis replies coolly, his eyes twinkling. “Was signing off on his pre-exercise questionnaire upstairs when I was on my way down.”

The room falls silent. Zayn has the distinct sense in the pit of his stomach like he might be sick.

A few moments pass and then Liam clears his throat. “I need to get going. Zayn, are you—?”

Zayn nods so fast it’s a wonder that his head doesn’t snap clean off. “Yeah, uh-huh, I’m coming. For Katy’s sake.”

“Not at all so you can spy on Harry Styles,” Louis calls after him in a sing-song voice as he bolts towards the door, Liam on his heels. 

There’s no sign of an international pop star when they make it up to the gym, Zayn more than a little out of breath from taking the stairs two at a time. 

“I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you move that fast,” Liam comments, looking almost awed. “I didn’t think _run_ was in your vocabulary.” Liam grins. “Well, if you call that running.” He mimes Zayn’s attempt, limbs flopping about every which way.

Zayn scowls, jabbing Liam in the ribs, as a young woman moves over to them shyly. Her brown hair is tied back into a ponytail, her cheeks a little pink from exertion.

“Hi Katy,” Liam says, flashing Zayn a pointed look. 

Right. Katy. 

“Have a good day, babe. I’ll see you tonight, yeah?” This is the part where Zayn goes in for a hug, lets it linger a while, grabbing a good handful of Liam’s bum in the meantime. 

Later, he’ll blame it on the fact that just as he was pushing up onto his toes to hug Liam, he sees him. Harry Styles. Walking into the gym in tight red shorts, with his hands twisting his hair into a bun. He’ll blame Harry Styles for his moment of his insanity as he grabs Liam by the face and sticks his tongue into his mouth.

Liam makes a noise of surprise, his hands squeezing Zayn’s hips in a way that could either mean _don’t stop_ or _get off me, you big idiot._  

It’s probably the latter.

Zayn’s out of breath when he pulls back. Over Liam’s shoulder, he sees Harry cock his head, and fix him with a small smile. His cheeks flush and he doesn’t spare more than a glance for Katy’s expression—somewhere between embarrassed and heartbroken—before he’s legging it for the stairs.

He doesn’t stop until he’s safely back on the spa floor and even then keeps pushing one foot in front of the other until he can curl up into a ball under the reception desk. He tucks his knees up under his chin and squeezes his eyes shut, before letting out a low, pitiful whine. 

The toe of Louis’ shoe nudges him where he’s cocooned under the desk. “What happened?” He bends down, eyebrows knitted together in confusion. 

“I kissed Liam.” Zayn peeks one eye open. “I saw Harry Styles and panicked and kissed Liam and Harry Styles saw me kissing Liam.”

Louis drops down to crouch next to him, cackling loudly. “Zayn Malik, you _dog!”_ He waggles his eyebrows. “Is Liam a good kisser? I’ve always wondered.”

“ _Louis_. I didn’t much stop to think about it! Harry Styles saw me kissing Liam!”

“Yes, you said,” Louis replies dryly. He straightens up.

“It’s fine,” Zayn reasons out loud, letting out a long, slow breath. “It’s fine. I’m never going to see him again and I can forget this ever happened.”

“Liam might remember. Liam might come back for more.”

Zayn pinches Louis’ ankle. “Shut up. Liam knows I only did it because Katy was there. Even though I didn’t really mean to do it at all. But it’s still the only reason, really.”

Louis hums, clicking something on the computer above. “One more slight flaw in your plan. Teeny tiny, really. Inconsequential." 

Zayn peers out from under the desk. “What is it?” 

Louis leans forward to read something from the screen. “Two o’clock. Full relax package for one. Client: Harry Edward Styles. Medical form status: complete.”

“I’m not doing it. You do it.”

“Can’t—Mrs. Lancaster is in at two-thirty.”

“So _I’ll_ do Mrs. Lancaster and _you_ do Harry Styles.”

Louis looks affronted. “Zayn! We both know that I am Mrs. Lancaster’s favourite. And you want to betray her loyalty to our spa by not giving her her favourite therapist?”

Zayn narrows his eyes at Louis and hopes it conveys the message appropriately. The message being that Zayn could murder Louis in his sleep one day, should he wish to. 

Louis is unaffected. Rather, Louis hits a button on the keyboard, the printer kicking into life. He passes down to Zayn the paper it’s spewed out, Harry’s medical history detailed in front of Zayn’s eyes.

Zayn groans and slams his head back against the wood. 

“ _It’s gonna be a lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lo-vely day,_ ” Louis sings, his feet disappearing around the edge of the desk.

***

By lunchtime, Zayn’s worked himself into state. He barely manages to restock the product shelf with his hands shaking like they are and more than a few bottles of expensive lotions nearly go splattering onto the floor in the process. He _knows_ it’s ridiculous, the nervous kind of anticipation that’s wriggled its way under his skin. For maybe the first time, he wishes he’d just gotten a job on the checkouts at Tesco like a normal student.

Then he wouldn’t be facing the prospect of having to touch Harry Styles. Like, a lot.  

_The Soho Hotel and Spa Full Relax Package includes:_

  * _Moisturising facial_
  * _Neck and shoulders deep tissue massage_
  * _All-over back hot-stone treatment and massage_
  * _Lower back intense massage (optional—recommended for those extra aches and pains!)_
  * _Thigh and calf massage_



_Concluding with a thirty minute hot lounger unwind and your choice of organic juice, all in the relaxing atmosphere of our in-house spa where you will be tended to by trained professionals. The treatment can be adapted to your needs—don’t hesitate to let your therapist know if there’s any places in particular that you would like focus on._

It’s not like Zayn’s practically wanked himself blind one weekend over a photo of Harry’s thighs in skin-tight white jeans. And now he’s being expected to _touch_ them, without making a complete tit out of himself.

“I think you’re making a bigger deal out of this than you maybe need to,” Liam suggests gently over lunch, sitting alongside Louis on the cream sofa. “Just forget about the fact that it’s Harry Styles. He’s just another client.” He shrugs. “And for what it’s worth, he’s really nice. We got on really well earlier when he was in the gym.”

Louis cuts off Zayn’s groan by clearing his throat sharply. “Can we forget about Harry Styles for one second? I want to talk about how you two played tonsil tennis in the middle of our workplace this morning.” He waggles his eyebrows. “How was it for you, Liam?”

Liam stutters, his cheeks turning a little pink. “I mean—” He flashes Zayn an exasperated look. “A little warning would be nice next time, mate.”

Zayn drops his gaze to the sandwich he’s not so much eating as toying with. “I panicked. M’sorry.”

“But he’s a very good kisser. I can’t really complain. And I think it did the trick with Katy.” 

Zayn perks up a little at that. He looks up to find Louis looking at him curiously, his head cocked. He doesn’t trust that look. Zayn narrows his eyes. “What?”

Louis deposits his lunch onto the table and walks over to the armchair Zayn’s in, slinging himself over his lap. This, in itself, is not all that unusual. “Go on, then. Give us a kiss. 

“Louis,” Zayn splutters. “I’m trying to eat here.”

“You’re not eating; you’re not hungry for anything but Harry Styles right now. Which is understandable but besides the point.” He pouts. “Just a little one. I want to know what all the fuss is about.” 

“You should probably just kiss him. You know he won’t shut up about it until you do,” Liam advises.

Zayn sighs. “You’re all ridiculous. The lot of you.” He cups Louis by the jaw and pulls him to him, pressing their lips together. It doesn’t last more than a second or two, really—and probably wouldn’t have, even if Niall hadn’t walked in.

“Oi, oi. What’s all this, then? First Liam, now Louis?” He settles himself into Louis’ recently vacated spot and cracks open a bottle of water. “Is Zayn in heat or something?”

Zayn huffs and sends Louis sprawling onto the floor with an indignant hiss. “Louis asked me to.”

“Liam didn’t,” Niall offers cheerfully.

Zayn ignores him.

“Well, despite your ungentlemanly behaviour just then, Zayn, I’ve got to agree with Liam. Maybe you ought to just plant one on Harry when he comes down. Might calm you down a little.”

Zayn stands up and tosses the remains of his sandwich into the bin. “I should start setting up,” he says briskly and tries to block out the catcalling that follows him as he goes into Therapy Room 1. 

Ironically, Zayn always finds it kind of therapeutic, setting up the room for a client. There’s something in the methodical routine of it as he sets out the oils he’ll need, from the scent range that Harry had chosen on his form. He sets the wick-burning candles into their allocated, safe spaces to light last and the fake ones he scatters over the remaining surfaces. He fits the massage bed with fresh sheets and tucks a towel around the headrest to cushion it. 

He’s just washing his hands, the candles lit and ready, when there comes a light knock on the door. 

Louis ducks his head in. “He’s here,” he murmurs, beckoning him out of the room. “For the record, I still think you should take my advice.”

“You can take your advice and stick it up your arse, Louis Tomlinson,” Zayn mutters under his breath as he walks past, smoothing out the front of his uniform. “Mr. Styles?" 

His hair is loose and curly again, the chestnut tips touching his shoulders. He’s just in sweats and a t-shirt, a robe over his arm. It’s not the hotel one, though; not the thick, unflattering white fluffy thing, but something red and silky with flowers over it.  

_Mother fucker._

“My name’s Zayn, I’ll be your therapist today. If you just want to step inside, I’ll give you a few moments to get undressed and comfortable in your…” Zayn trails off gesturing to the scrap of fabric in his arms. “Robe.”

Harry smiles, dimpling his cheeks. Even just like this, Zayn can’t help but think how beautiful he looks. Even with slippers on his feet and a very obvious hole in the bottom of his t-shirt. “Thanks. I won’t be a sec.”

Zayn nods and steps back to let him into the room, closing the door behind him.

“You handled that quite well, actually,” Louis comments from where he’s been watching the exchange happen from behind the reception desk. “I mean, your face is a total giveaway but you managed to get words out. That’s more than you did the first time you massaged that bloke with the tattoos and the six-pack.” Louis wipes away an imaginary tear. “I’m so proud of you.”

Zayn flips him off and goes to pour a glass of water for Harry. He knocks on the door lightly and waits for Harry to tell him he can enter before he does so. It’s a wonder he doesn’t drop the glass; his other hand clenched around the door handle.

Harry’s bent over where he’s folding his clothes on the chair in the corner of the room, his red robe—which is more of a kimono thing—riding up his thighs so Zayn can see the bottom of his boxer briefs. He turns and beams at him. The kimono gapes over his chest, revealing the patterns of tattoos that Zayn would never admit to having more-or-less memorised. It’s knotted at the waist but it might as well not be for how much skin is on show.

“I’m ready,” Harry tells him. 

_I’m not,_ Zayn thinks.

“What’s first?”

*

Harry’s a talker. 

Objectively, Zayn’s pretty sure he knew this, but it’s a whole other thing when he’s faced with it in person. It seems that nothing can deter him, whether he’s chattering about how the last few shows have really done his back in and how his doctor recommended this spa to him, or asking Zayn about himself—where he’s from, what his family’s like. How he got into spa therapy. 

Zayn relays the same answer he did during his first day and receives a bark of a laugh in response.

“Well, I agree,” Harry says, his words a bit garbled as Zayn works his fingers into Harry’s cheeks as he works the facial scrub off his skin. “And this is just my face. I can’t wait to see what wonders you work on my body.”

Zayn manages to disguise the choking noise he makes as a cough.

Zayn gets five seconds to himself while he waits outside the room for Harry to shed the robe— _oh god_ —and get under the sheet— _oh_ god—but Louis’ already in his session in the other room. So he makes do with screaming silently at the wall, taking a few deep breaths to calm himself down.

“Zayn?” He hears from behind the door. “I’m ready.”

“You can do this,” Zayn whispers to himself. “Just another client. Just. Another. Client.” He smacks his cheek gently to make himself focus and slips into the room.

Harry’s tied his hair up again, presumably to keep it out of Zayn’s way. His head’s tucked into the rest, his broad shoulders all bare and waiting for Zayn. The sheet covers little more than the swell of his ass, his back bare right down to the dip of his spine, his thighs parted slightly where they lie against the bed.

Fortunately for Zayn, the towel does deter Harry from talking, and for the first time in their session together, he’s quiet. Zayn turns up the relaxation music a notch and smoothes oil over his hands. “I’ll start with your neck and shoulders and then move into the rest of your back. Was it your lower back you said needed a little extra attention?”

“Yes, please,” Harry murmurs.

Zayn presses his thumbs in between Harry’s shoulder blades, starting to working his hands into his skin. His skin is smooth and soft beneath his hands and Zayn’s pleased to find there are no great tense knots in his shoulders, at least. For the neck and shoulders, he has to stand at the top of the bed, by Harry’s head, so the length of Harry’s body is splayed out in front of him. The expanse of his back, the curve of his ass that tapers off to his thighs. It’s dangerous territory for his mind to be wandering in, but he reasons it’s probably safer than thinking about how close his dick is to Harry’s face right now.

Harry’s stays relatively silent through the neck and shoulders and the hot stones, just letting out contended little hums once in a while, his toes wriggling at the foot of the bed. 

Zayn makes sure to oil his hands again before he starts on his lower back, standing by the side of the bed now. From the first touch, he can tell just how much pressure Harry has built up there, the muscle twisted up and tense.

“Harder, if that’s— Is that okay?” Harry raises his head a little. “I don’t mind if it hurts a little, I think I need it." 

Zayn nods and waits until he settles again before moving his hands back to his skin. He presses in deep and Harry lets out a low whine. “Are you alright?” Zayn asks gently, stilling with the heels of his palms dug into his back. The human body is is remarkably fragile and he could do some serious damage if he goes too hard. He doesn’t want to make Harry’s back worse.

“Yeah, it’s good—it feels good,” Harry assures him.

Harry keeps making those noises as Zayn works his lower back; Zayn isn’t sure Harry even realises he’s doing it. He’s heard all kinds of noises over the years, clients barely even aware as their bodies unwind and react naturally. 

So it shouldn’t really be that much of a surprise. Zayn puts it down to it being Harry for the way his deep, guttural moans make goosebumps flare out of over Zayn’s skin.  

“God, you really are good with your hands,” Harry murmurs, letting out a breathy laugh.

Zayn has to bite down harshly on his lower lip to trying and stop from popping one out right there and then. 

He keeps working his lower back until he feels that the knots have become more supple under his hands, before oiling his hands to start on his thighs. As if Zayn isn’t dangerously close to getting turned on as it is.  

He scoots the sheet up a fraction more and spreads Harry’s thighs out a little. He tells himself he imagines it when Harry’s breath hitches. He smoothes his hands over the curve of Harry’s upper thigh, swallowing as he feels the soft hairs tickle his palms.

Harry shudders a little under his touch and Zayn’s gone, his cock jerking forward in his thin uniform trousers. 

He doesn’t rush it, he’s still got to finish his job, but he certainly doesn’t linger much longer as he finishes up Harry’s thighs and his calves and sets the sheet down to his knees. He clears his throat and steps back, clasping his hands behind his back so he doesn’t try to keep touching Harry just because he _wants_ to. God, does he want to.   

He wants to bite into the fleshy meat of his thighs and suck a bruise there for Harry to find again later, when he’s alone. He wants to lie over the expanse of his back and slot his cock between Harry’s ass cheeks until he’s coming over his beautiful, _beautiful_ skin. He wants to turn him over and sink his mouth down so far over his cock that he has tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.  

He needs to get out of this room.

“So, if you just want to get back into your robe and make yourself comfortable on the lounger,” Zayn says in a rush as he backs towards the door. “I’ll have Louis sort out your juice. It was lovely to meet you, Mr. Styles.” 

He doesn’t even wait for a response before he stumbles out of the room, shutting the door behind him with a whoosh of breath. 

Louis looks up from where he’s filing his client’s paperwork. “I’ll do what now? I heard my name.”

“Can you—” Zayn’s voice sounds tight and strangled; probably something to do with where his cock is half-hard and throbbing between his legs. “Juice. Please? I really fucking need a cigarette.” He doesn’t give Louis a chance to protest, jogging towards the door to the stairs. “I’ll make it up to you, thank you!”

***

 The cigarette almost isn’t enough to calm him down after all that, even if the swirl of nicotine in his lungs does help his heart rate to relax some. The stone is cool behind his head as he leans back, closing his eyes and exhaling a plume of smoke into the afternoon air. 

“You alright, mate?” Liam keeps saying he’s going to quit, but Zayn bumps into him almost daily, out in the little alley where they take their smoke breaks. 

Zayn nods, chuckling as he rubs a hand over his face. “How’d you manage? When he was all sweaty in his little shorts?”

Liam snorts, flicking his lighter on. “He’s fit but, like, I haven’t had a massive crush on him for years.”

“It’s not massive,” Zayn grumbles, even if his barely softened dick is telling him otherwise. 

“Mate, come on. Do you remember when you took your sister to his concert? You wouldn’t shut up for three weeks about how you were sure he winked at you.” Liam pauses to take a drag. “And your seats were like two rows from the back so there’s no chance. No offence.”

Zayn sighs in defeat, slumping back against the wall. 

Liam digs his phone out of his pocket, frowning at something on the screen. “Uh, you might want to get back in there. Louis just texted asking me what I think you’d do if he told Harry you have—and I quote— _a boner the size of Jupiter for him_.”

“Shit.” Zayn stubs out the last of his cigarette on the wall and heads back inside.

Harry’s gone when he gets back to the spa. 

Louis rolls his eyes. “Damnit, Liam,” he mutters. “I didn’t do anything, promise. He went back to his room so you can tidy up now.”

Zayn hesitates. “You really didn’t do anything, did you?”

Louis grins. “I _might_ have mentioned that you’re a good kisser, is all.”

Zayn balks. “There’s something wrong with you. With your brain. You’re not normal.”

“That’s not very nice,” Louis points out. “Poor lad, he was awful confused as to how I knew that. Thought you were dating Liam after your performance this morning. Got all flustered and worried you had a wife-and-the-mistress situation all going on under one roof. But I set him straight.”

“H-how exactly?” Zayn isn’t even sure he wants to know how Louis explained away Zayn kissing two of his co-workers in the space of one day. 

“Told him we were testing a working theory about whether or not you’re as good with your mouth as you are with your hands. I told him you’re even better with your mouth.” Louis looks far too pleased with himself. “He got a bit red at that. All shifty, like, and said he better get back to his room and get some work done.” He winks. “You’re welcome.”

Zayn presses the heels of his palms against his eyes. “I honestly don’t know how I feel about you right now.”

***

After the day he’s had, Zayn’s grateful for the quiet evening when it rolls around. Louis and Niall have both clocked off for the day; Liam’s somewhere in the gym but Zayn’s pretty sure his shift is nearly over, too. The spa’s schedule is technically finished but Zayn has to hang around for another hour in case any customers request a last minute in-room treatment before they officially close.  

He’s been staring at his uni assignment for the past half hour and getting nowhere, doing little more than doodling on the corner of the page. His pen strikes a sharp line against the page when he jolts with the phone ringing. Front desk.

“‘ello?” Zayn sticks the phone between his ear and shoulder and tries to work around the line. 

“Hiya, Zayn. I hate to do this to you, but—”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “It’s cool, I’m kinda bored down here anyways.”

“Room 2874, just a standard back and arms, thirty minutes. You’re a doll.”

He packs up a few oils and slings one of the portable massage beds under his arm, making sure to turn off the lights to the spa and lock the door before heading up. He manages to make it to the second floor without impaling anyone with the bed, which he takes as a good sign as he makes his way down the corridor.

He raps twice on the door. “Spa,” he calls out.

Harry opens the door and for the first time all day, he’s wearing proper clothes. Skintight black jeans with a massive rip on the thigh—not like it’s supposed to be there but like he actually ripped them falling into something—and a loose sweater. It’s got little holes in it and Zayn can see through to his bare chest where he’s not wearing a t-shirt underneath. The metal of the necklaces beneath the sweater glints in the low light of his room as he takes a step back. 

“Hi.” Harry grins sheepishly. 

Zayn frowns but lugs the bed inside, anyway, and shuts the door. “Is your back acting up? I was a bit worried I might have overdone it earlier.” 

“No, no, I—” Harry tugs at his lower lip, one arm wrapped around his waist. “I don’t actually want a massage. And my back’s fine—better than, actually. Can’t remember the last time it felt this good.” 

Zayn feels a bit silly standing their holding the bed under one arm when Harry’s just said he doesn’t want a massage. He props it up against the wall. “Uh.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Is there something I can help you with, then?”

“Can I make you a drink? The mini bar’s got everything, I swear.” Harry chuckles. 

“I’m, like, still on shift so I can’t drink right now,” Zayn replies, his eyebrows knitted together in a frown still. “If you changed your mind about the massage that’s fine. I can get the front desk to refund you.” He turns to go. 

“No! Please— Please don’t go. I just wanted to talk to you.”

Zayn’s getting exasperated. “About what?”

“About, I don’t know, anything. Just _talk_. Like how people talk, you know?”

Zayn hesitates. “Look, I know Louis probably said some stupid things to you about me, but—”

“I think you’re really fit,” Harry blurts out, his cheeks dotting pink as he smacks a hand over his mouth. “Oh my god, I shouldn’t have said it like that. I mean, I was going to be all sweet and romantic and stuff and not just, uh… Look, with or without what Louis said, I thought you were really fit from the moment I saw you in the gym earlier. I was already trying to figure out how I could get your name or your number or something.”

“Didn’t you think I was dating Liam, though?”

Harry shrugs, a small smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

Zayn can’t help but laugh. “You’re shameless.”

“Thanks. I think.” Harry’s cheeks dimple. “So, uh, will you stay? Because if what Louis said is any indication, you think I’m fit, too.” He steps in close to Zayn, backing him up against the door. His smells like spearmint and soap. “And I know how amazing your hands are so I’d love to know how your mouth can be even better,” he murmurs, pressing his hands up against the door at either side of Zayn’s head.

“I— I mean, I’m—” Zayn stammers, his heart going like a jackhammer in his chest.

“I know you’re working but I’ve paid for you to be here for the next thirty minutes, anyway…”

Zayn squirms away from Harry’s mouth as he leans forward, ducking under his arm and hopping away a step. “I’m not— You can’t pay me to suck your dick, Harry. Spa therapist isn’t a euphemism. I’m _literally_ a spa therapist.”  

Harry blinks. “No, I know, I wasn’t— Oh my god, I didn’t mean like that I was paying you to—” He groans and buries his face in his hands. “This is so embarrassing.” He looks up. “I really don’t think you’re a prostitute, Zayn, I swear.”

Zayn nods. “No, I know. I just can’t do anything like this on the clock. Or off, really, not while you’re a client here.”

“Right. Right, I guess I didn’t really think of that.” He grabs a hotel branded pad of paper from the table and a pen, scribbling something down. “Will you come over to my house, then? Tomorrow night?” He looks up hopefully, handing him the piece of paper. “I’ll cook. We can have dinner and get to know one another. And if I get to find out how amazing your mouth is, that’s—I wouldn’t be opposed to that. But no obligations or anything, obviously.”

Zayn takes the paper. “Like a date? You’re asking me out?” He looks down at the paper, the hastily scribbled address there. 

_This is the part of the dream where I wake up to my alarm blaring, right?_

“Yeah. Like a date. If you want to.” 

Zayn can’t stop the smile that digs into his cheeks. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, Harry.” 

***

“No way,” is the first thing Louis says when Zayn tells him the next day. “No _way_. Are you serious? What the hell kind of fantasy world do you live in?” 

He turns to Liam with an incredulous expression. “I’ve had a massive crush on Natalie Portman for _years_ and she hasn’t just turned up in the hotel with barely any clothes on and started asking me out!” He huffs. “This is so unfair.”

Louis makes it a point to be moody and unresponsive for the rest of the day. He’ll barely even grace Zayn with meeting his gaze when he buys him a muffin at lunchtime from the bakery down the road. 

Come the end of the day, Zayn is antsy about his date with Harry and, frankly, a little bored without Louis’ usual nattering in his ear all day.

“I don’t know if I should bring something,” he tries when he gets tired of the sound of the wind chime sound effect that twinkles through the spa every thirty fucking seconds. “Like, do I bring wine, or something? But then that seems stupid because anything I could pick up from Sainsbury’s will taste like piss compared to anything Harry would buy. He probably has a wine cellar built into his house.”

“Bring condoms. And lube." 

Zayn looks up, startled. “It speaks!” 

Louis huffs. “I’m not actually mad, it’s just—” He folds his arms across his chest. “This was all a lot funnier when you were just making a tit over yourself in front of a famous pop star. I didn’t think you’d actually end up with an invite to shag him.”

“I have an invite to eat with him,” Zayn points out. “Not to shag him.” 

“It was implied, though. Didn’t he tell you he wanted to find out how good you are with your mouth?” Louis rolls his eyes. “He’s probably been daydreaming about having his dick in your mouth all day.”

Zayn clears his throat. He’s not sure he wants Louis thinking about Zayn having Harry’s dick in his mouth. “So, no to the wine?" 

“ _Condoms_ ,” Louis stresses. 

Zayn sighs. And if he stops past the chemist on his way home to get changed for his date then, really, it’s no one’s business but his own.

***

The piece of paper with Harry’s address on it is scrunched up in the pocket of Zayn’s jeans and he has to flatten it out when he arrives, squinting in the low evening light to make out the four digit code added to the bottom. He plugs it into the fancy black gate at the front of his house wrong the first time, hits 7 instead of 4, and tenses, waiting for some alarm to go off or dogs to run out and start nipping at his ankles.

When nothing happens but the little red light staying red, he tries again, letting out a breath as the gate starts to shunt its way open. It’s a far sight better than just a pile of bricks, Harry’s house. There’s an expensive looking car in the driveway and the gate makes a clunking sound as it shuts behind him. Zayn’s not even sure he’s been this far west in London before.

He stuffs the paper back into his pocket and smoothes out his white button-up shirt, that hangs over black skinny jeans. His leather jacket is almost too thin for this time of the year, the cold creeping up under the material and settling against his skin.

Zayn shivers as he presses the doorbell and gives his hair one last pat where the longer part is loose over his head, rather than tied back in a topknot as he would have it at work.

“Hiya,” Zayn says when Harry opens the door in a silky looking black shirt, that’s unbuttoned almost halfway, and jeans, his feet bare. 

“Wow,” Harry says and blinks. His cheeks colour as his eyes flicker up Zayn’s body. “Sorry. I just haven’t seen you in anything but your uniform which is… Fine and all, but this is. _Wow._ ”

Zayn shuffles from one foot to the other, heat blooming up his neck. “Thanks,” he replies with a soft grin. “Can I come inside?”

“Yeah, yes!” Harry steps back and ushers him in, shutting the door behind him.

Zayn inhales sharply as Harry leads him into the house, the hallway opening out into an enormous open-plan living room-slash-kitchen area. It smells like food, sweet and pungent, but also a little like the inside of the spa. He notes the candles by the lit fireplace and the stick of incense burning by the window. The lights are dimmed and as he walks further into the room, he can see that the coffee table in the middle of the living room is ladened with plates, lots of different little dishes.

“This is incredible,” Zayn breathes out. He’s not even sure if he’s talking about the house, or the current decor, or the food. Or just Harry himself. He turns to Harry, who’s standing by the sofa looking a little nervous. 

Harry Styles. Harry Styles who could have anyone on the _planet_ and he’s here, in his house, with Zayn, looking a little nervous.

“You’re incredible,” Zayn adds for good measure, taking a step towards him. He rocks onto his tiptoes and pecks the corner of his mouth before he can second-guess himself. 

Harry makes a noise of surprise, but he looks pleased. “You hungry?” He asks and entwines their fingers to lead him towards the feast that’s laid out.

If Zayn hadn’t already known this to be a date, he definitely does now. Harry’s eyes sparkle in the low light as they settle cross-legged on the floor by the coffee table. One of Harry’s large hands settles over his knee while the other reaches for a piece of something from a plate which he presses to Zayn’s mouth.

Zayn’s not sure how much they’re really going to get eaten before he gets distracted with wanting to kiss Harry again—properly, this time. It’s weird, knowing that he probably could. That he could probably lean over at any second and Harry would be easy for it, opening up for him and twisting his fingers into the longer part of Zayn’s hair. 

“What are you thinking about?” Harry asks, a small smile on his lips. 

“You,” Zayn replies honestly. “How much I want to kiss you right now.”

Harry laughs, the sound so soft and inviting. “So kiss me.”

So Zayn does. Harry’s fingers twist into his hair just like he thought they would, the nails of the other hand scratching into the shaved part and sending a shudder down his spine. Zayn feels like maybe he should be freaking out, worrying about matching up to the models and supermodels Harry’s dated in the past. But he’s not—he’s not thinking about anything beyond the here and now, which has Harry coaxing him into his lap with a hand to the small of his back. 

Harry’s back presses against the front of the sofa as Zayn settles himself over his thighs. He’s already a little hard but Harry is, too; he can feel the swell of his cock against his hip as he grinds down.  

“You don’t know how many times I’ve thought about this,” Zayn whispers against his mouth. His lips feel swollen from how Harry’s been sucking on them and it’s making the blood pump faster through his body. “About you. Never thought it’d happen, though,” he admits, a little breathless.

“Did you touch yourself, thinking about me?” Harry asks, his grin devilishly wide as he cups Zayn through the front of his jeans. “Show me. Show me how you touched yourself, Zayn. Wanna see.”

Zayn groans and scrambles to pop the button on his jeans, hissing as it relieves some of the pressure on his cock. He doesn’t bother trying to get his jeans or boxer briefs off, just pushes the material out of the way and pulls out his cock, wrapping a hand around himself loosely.

“Fuck,” Harry whimpers, no subtlety in how he’s staring at Zayn’s cock as he fucks it through the circle of his fist slowly. “Fuck, you’re beautiful. Want you inside of me.” 

Precome blurts out over the head of Zayn’s cock and he smears it over the length with his palm, his thighs shaking. “Yeah? Maybe I should open you up with my tongue, show you how good I am with my mouth.” Zayn thumbs at the slit of his cock as Harry’s hands grab hold of his arse and squeeze tightly. 

“Yeah, fuck. I need to— _Zayn_. Get up a sec, I need to get these jeans off or my dick is going to fall off, I swear.”

Harry’s all ungraceful limbs as he scrambles to his feet and Zayn would laugh if he were faring any better, his knees shaking as he stands up, cock hanging out of his jeans. 

Harry starts trying to get his shirt off but Zayn stills his hands.

“Can I?”

Harry nods, panting, his chest flushed.

Zayn pulls him close, undoing one button at a time, before pushing the material back off his shoulders. It hits the floor with a swishing sound, by which time Zayn’s already at the waistband of Harry’s jeans, pushing the tight material over the curve of his ass. “Well, shit." 

Harry’s not wearing any underwear, the jeans pushing away to let his cock bob up against his stomach, flushed red at the tip. “I was optimistic,” he purrs. 

Together, they fight to get Harry’s jeans off his legs and tossed somewhere onto the floor before Harry flops back onto the wide sofa, giving his cock a few gentle tugs while Zayn gets undressed himself. 

Zayn hums, pushing Harry to roll over. “On your stomach,” he murmurs, dragging him up by the hips when he’s face down against the sofa cushions. 

This, in a sense, is familiar. The expanse of Harry’s back is now familiar to Zayn, the curve of his lower back and the way the muscles in his shoulders ripple. But at the same time, it’s different here in the low light of Harry’s home, with the firelight making his skin shine. It’s different when Zayn can sink his fingers into the globes of his ass and spread him apart, breathing hot air against his puckered hole.

Zayn presses the tip of his tongue against his rim before licking a fat stripe up the middle of his ass cheeks. He can already feel Harry quivering in his hands, the noises he’s letting out not dissimilar to the ones he has heard before. This time, he doesn’t even try to hide how the noise go straight to his cock, as he grinds the length of it into the back of Harry’s leg.

“Zayn, _please_ ,” Harry breathes out, the most beautiful sound Zayn thinks he’s heard.

He digs the nails of his thumbs into his skin as he spreads him apart and starts eating him out in earnest, spit dripping down his chin as he licks into him. The obscene sound echoes around the room, accompanied by Harry’s choked off sounds as he presses his face into the sofa cushions.

“ _Fuck._ Zayn, fuck me, fuck me right now or I’m going to come,” Harry babbles, although that doesn’t stop him from pushing his arse right back against Zayn’s face.

Zayn grins and scratches his stubble over Harry’s arse cheek and gives it a pinch for good measure.

Harry’s hips cant forward, desperate for some friction on his cock. “S’in the bathroom, there’s— I can go, or, uh, second—” 

Zayn pulls back with a pop from where he’d been sucking a mark into Harry’s hip. “Hmm?”

“Condom and stuff. Bathroom,” Harry manages to squeak, his hands fisted into the material of the sofa.

“I got it,” Zayn murmurs, reaching for his jacket that he’d left over the back of the sofa, and digging out the things he’d bought.

Harry cocks his head around and raises an eyebrow.

Zayn’s cheeks flush. “Long story.”

Harry’s wet from Zayn’s mouth but he’s still careful to open him up with a few slicked up fingers, fucking him slow and careful until Harry’s writhing and spewing profanities about what he’s going to do to Zayn if he doesn’t fuck him right fucking _now._  

Zayn rolls the condom down over his cock and slicks himself up, his eyes nearly rolling back into his head at how hard he is, how good it feels to get any friction on himself. He pushes against Harry’s entrance, moving so his chest is pressed against Harry’s back as he slides in.  

His hips meet Harry’s arse with a smack and he breathes out hot air over the back of his neck. His hands slide up over Harry’s arms until he finds his hands, tangling their fingers together. “You good?” He mumbles. 

“So good,” Harry assures him in a soft voice, his eyes half lidded as he tips his head back far enough to catch Zayn’s mouth in an off-centre kiss. “Please.”

Zayn shushes him gently. “Got you, babe. I got you.” He rocks his hips forward and wills himself not to come on the spot, even though Harry’s clenched hot around him, sucking him in deep. He uses the grip he has on Harry’s hands as leverage as he starts fucking him, their skin smacking together, a slight sheen of sweat coating their bodies.  

They’re pressed so tight together that Zayn could count the little downy hairs at the nape of Harry’s neck. He can practically feel his heart beating through his back and can hear every one of the breathy whimpers he lets out as Zayn fucks him into the sofa cushions.

“Zayn,” Harry whispers, and Zayn’s never liked his name so much as like he likes it coming from Harry’s lips like this, when he’s all blissed out and pliant beneath him. “Gonna come. Gonna come all over this fucking sofa, _fuck_.”

Harry says Zayn’s name once more and he’s done for, shooting into the condom as his hips stutter against his ass. Zayn doesn’t stop to think or to breathe, he just slips out of Harry and rolls him over, sinking his mouth down over his swollen cock. 

Harry’s hips jerk forward and Zayn has to breathe out steadily through his nose to keep from choking, one hand pressed down over Harry’s torso as he sucks him down. Harry’s hand tangles into his hair and Zayn looks up at him, even though he can barely see with his eyes watering like they are.

Harry comes without warning, spilling into Zayn’s mouth as he murmurs complete gibberish, some of which sounds like Zayn’s name, mixed in with a whole bunch of expletives.

Zayn coughs and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He’s sated but he’s buzzing, his skin practically vibrating right down to his bones. 

Harry draws him down to his chest, wrapping his arms around Zayn’s shoulders and pulling him in close. Zayn tips his head up so he can rub the tips of their noses together, before pressing their mouths together in a dry kiss. 

“Aw,” Harry murmurs suddenly, his eyelids droopy and his cheeks pink. “You stopped me from getting come all over the sofa,” he coos. 

Zayn snorts and buries his face into the crook of Harry’s neck. “You’re such a dork.”

“Your dork?”

Zayn’s breath hitches, his stomach flip-flopping all over the place. “My dork." 

Harry practically purrs. “My Zayn.” He grins and slots his mouth down over the juncture between Zayn’s neck and shoulder, sucking deep into the skin until there’s a blooming mark left in its place. 

***

When Zayn walks into the spa the next day, Louis scowls and reluctantly hands a twenty pound note over to Liam. 

“He thought you’d bottle it. Wouldn’t even make it to the door,” Liam explains, tucking the note into his pocket. “I knew you wouldn’t, though. Good job, Zayn.”

“Did you at least take my advice?” Louis asks.

Zayn nods. “I did. Turns out it was good advice.”

He looks a little placated. 

Niall wanders out of his office and guffaws at the large, purple mark on Zayn’s neck. “Alright, who gave you _that_ then?”

Zayn grins. 

Louis groans. 

Liam just fixes him with a look. “Mate, where have you _been?_ ”

 

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, I just never know what to do with Niall. Meep.


End file.
